


Get Some

by buttercups3



Series: Semper Fidelis [1]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Combat, Did I mention Marines say horribly offensive things? Just checking, Eventual gay sex with a possible rating increase to E, For the love of sanity please steer clear of this story if the way Marines converse offends you, M/M, Masturbation, No really these are Marines so mind the language warning, Now that I think about it narrator also has flashes of foresight, Operation Iraqi Freedom, POV Third Person Limited, Violence, offensive language, to Bass and Miles with some internalization of their inner monologues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-07 12:49:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1899627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercups3/pseuds/buttercups3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As they invade Iraq in 2003 with their fellow Marines, Miles and Bass learn what it means to be warriors and in the process strengthen their bonds of friendship and love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Splice the Mainbrace

**Author's Note:**

> While this story is based on a fair amount of research and real-life events, it remains entirely a fiction. I do not own Miles and Bass or Revolution. Many thanks to Maywitch for research assistance and support. I'll decode some of the Marine lingo in the end notes that isn't clear from context, and if the tags haven't already made this clear, this story strives to authentically represent the boys' experience on their first tour. If you're unfamiliar with the U.S. military in 2003, Don't Ask Don't Tell was still in place. Gender integration was (and is) problematic. The Marines verbally dispense horrible bigotry to one another, and yet they deeply love and would give their lives for each other.
> 
> This multi-chap is the first in a series entitled Semper Fidelis representing the boys' two tours in Iraq and one tour in Afghanistan.
> 
> Oh and final note: the boys are part of a platoon, and that requires OCs. I know some find this annoying, but I need OCs to accurately represent Marine camaraderie. I promise they're not one-offs like in Revo, and the action will always revolve around our boys.

_January 14, 2003_  
 _Near Camp Lejeune, North Carolina_

The Marines have cut loose though they know it’ll hurt tomorrow. Miles is slumped down into his frothy lager, apparently trying to drink it without lifting his glass. Rule of thumb: when you have to use a straw, stop drinking. Bass valiantly lingers a shade shy of blitzed, but every time he even glances at Miles has to fight the urge to doze off on the invitingly broad shoulder. They’re exhausted. Why are they still drinking when they have to get up tomorrow at 0500? Well, no one said Marines were geniuses.

“Fucking 72 hours notice is all they give us. Can you believe this bullshit, Matheson?” CPL Anthony Garcia grouses for the third or fourth time.

In the morning Task Force Tarawa, the 2nd Marine Expeditionary Brigade, embarks for Iraq. The boys’ snuggly corner of the invading force, Alpha Company 1/2, 1st platoon, will begin their journey not on sand but on water aboard the _USS Kearsarge_.

“T’morro’ll dump you ocean, ass licker,” Miles mutters and manages to toss the golden liquid near enough to his mouth that some makes it in.

Garcia clamps a hand on the back of Miles’ neck. “Best insult you got, Poet? You really are drunk. Lemme see that picture of your girl again – I mean your ex-girl. Always did love a red head.”

“Fuck you,” Miles swats him off as Bass laughs and pilfers Miles’ pint, earning a menacing glare from his best friend.

“Maybe you didn’t eat her pussy enough. Had you considered that?” Garcia goes right on needling Miles.

Usually that’s Bass’ job, but he doesn’t go after Miles on Emma. Not when he knows he’s the reason she Dear John-ed him at boot camp back in May. She sent him back the ring and everything. For months all Bass could get out of Miles about the dissolution of his engagement was: “What am I supposed to do with a fucking diamond at boot camp?” Then it became, “Where the fuck do I stow this at SOI?” And so on. That stupid ring seemed to be Miles’ biggest problem through six months of the most grueling training the United States had to offer (or so they believed at the time).

Last Bass’d checked Miles had threaded the ring onto his necklace like it was a talisman instead of a curse. It’ll hang next to his dog tags in Iraq, so if he expires there, people will think he died pining over Emma fucking Bennett. Bass scowls and plots ways to get it lost in the Atlantic on the way to their staging camp in Kuwait.

“I ate it almost every time,” Miles answers Garcia more coherently, probably because his manhood has been threatened.

LCPL Donnell “Crib” Williams pipes in from down the bar, “Aw dawg, then you did it _too_ often. You’ve got to make her beg for it. You know, dole it out only on weekends and holidays.”

Miles inclines his chin like he’s pondering the merits of Crib’s suggestion and reaches for the glass that isn’t there, side-eying Bass again. With a touch of exasperation (mainly at being deprived of his beer) Miles mumbles thickly, “If women are as confusing as you numbfucks make ‘em out to be, I’m glad I’m going to the land of Hijabs and… what’s the eye slit one again?”

Bass offers, “Niqab,” and semi-collapses on his forearm.

His bright, blue eyes peer woozily up at Garcia who rejoins, “That shit has the opposite effect it’s supposed to on me. It’s got a mother fucking slit! Makes me horny just thinkin’ about it.”

“Word. Just begging to have a dong crammed in it.” It’s Crib, but it’s such typical Marine dick swinging it could be anyone of them.

“Gotta piss.” Miles abruptly scoots back his stool and aggressively ambles off, overestimating his sobriety and bumping into a table along the way.

“Aw, somebody accompany the Poet to the head before he hurts hisself,” Crib frets.

“On it,” Bass mutters, tossing back the rest of Miles’ beer, as if this further qualifies him for the task.

Bass almost doesn’t make it in time to edge into the single-stalled men’s room after Miles. His hand narrowly avoids a glob of neon-green gum stuck beside the cheerful graffiti of a juggling lobster penis.

“Can’t I do anything alone?” Miles jabs grumpily and unzips his fly to start pissing loudly into the can.

Bass hops up on the sink to regard Miles casually. Is it weird that he finds it soothing listening to Miles’ stream? “The ladies out there were afraid you couldn’t hold your liquor. Better sober up before we get back to base.”

“I’ll dry out on the drive.”

Miles tucks himself back into his black boxer briefs, as Bass shakes his head and chuckles, flashing white teeth. They’re still young enough to think themselves invincible. Iraq will change that.

Miles flushes the dirty urinal with a _whoosh_ and reaches around Bass to wash his hands. They’re both impeccably groomed at the moment, Bass’ curls whittled down to a buzz; Miles’ cheeks devoid of their typical grizzle. They’re model all-American boys. Miles reaches for a paper towel and pauses, his face looming beside Bass’.

Bass is about to ask, _What?_ when Miles grabs his best friend’s jaw with both hands and forces him into his lips so hard that Bass has to karate kick to keep from falling into the sink. They haven’t kissed since they were seventeen years old, and Miles is acting like this is no big thing. His warm, wet lips migrate familiarly to the corner of Bass’ mouth, tongue just about to breach the pink lips, when Bass puts a firm hand on Miles’ chest and pushes back.

“The fuck, man.”

“Bass.” Miles’ forehead sinks in against Bass’, Miles’ bleary eyes fluttering shut. It’s like he’s about to pass out and only the force of his evident horniness is keeping him upright.

Miles isn’t thinking straight, but the hazy idea of deploying tomorrow to go to actual war in combination with the booze is making him reckless. And honest.

Bass can feel Miles’ pulse in his forehead, the hot beer breath against his lips.

“Suck me off, baby,” Miles whispers.

“What?” Bass’ Adam’s apple bobs.

“Suck me off. Come on. Door’s locked.” The words sound needy and arrogant even to Miles as they filter down through his brain fog.

Meanwhile bitter irritation flushes out the alcohol in Bass’ system. How dare Miles call him _baby_ , ask him for _that_? Bass suffered through years of Emma and for what: a cheap pre-deployment fuck in the local pub’s shitter? No fucking thank you.

Ignoring the heaviness in his crotch Bass practically growls this time, “Back off, you fucking asshole.”

He swings his legs off the sink and leans against the door, crossing his arms over his muscular chest, the black M of his forearm just visible. Miles stares at it, trying to focus on something. What the hell is he doing?

“You’re so drunk you couldn’t get it up even if I did agree to play your bitch.”

Bass’ excessive venom is a defensive tactic, and it does appear to chasten Miles.

“C’mon, Bass. S’not like that.” He licks his lips.

“Well you left me for a woman. Woulda married her if she hadn’t dumped your sorry ass. And for what? All to prove you’re not gay?”

Miles holds Bass’ fierce glare for a moment and then runs a hand over his face. “You think that’s why I…?” But he can’t find the words to continue. Explaining why he went back to Emma at the end of an intense junior year with Bass would require energy he doesn’t possess tonight.

Bass shakes his head curtly and gives up, wrenching open the flimsy door and striding back out into the bar. They say nothing to each other on the way back to Camp Lejeune, but sure enough, driving sobers up Miles like a charm.

Why Miles had to pull this bullshit the night before they leave for war… It’s a typical asshole-Miles maneuver, and yet it hurts a surprising amount. Because of course Bass wants Miles, craves the comfort of his big body, pressing into him like home. The taste of his lips after all these years nearly stripped Bass of all his self-control and only his raw resentment saved him from yielding.

As Miles shifts the Challenger into park, he admits to himself that no matter how abstract it seems at the moment, war could mean the end for him or Bass. And like the dumb ass Miles is, he fucked up the chance to be with Bass one more time. Now both of them, along with every man in the task force, has to put aside his own selfishness and focus on the mission.

They have to be Marines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1/2 = 1st Battalion, 2nd Marines  
> SOI = U.S. Marine Corps School of Infantry


	2. At Sea

_January 15-February 15 2003_  
Aboard the _USS Kearsarge_  

They’re like ants in a giant, floating anthill, if anthills could be 844 feet long. You’d think all that space could better accommodate 1,700 Marines, but Bass wakes up every morning cracking heads with PFC Kelly “Bundy” Dolan above ("Bundy" for Ted Bundy – Dolan’s a legit psycho) and Miles below, as they vacate the racks for the night shifters. Whoever shares with Bass keeps leaving not-so-mysterious stains on the sheets, and it’s wigging him out. The general lack of hygiene fundamental to being a Marine might be the toughest adjustment for Bass. Of course, he hasn’t killed yet.

After many days at sea of pushing away Miles, Bass is excessively weary mainly because he’s lonely. This morning he manages to swing out of his rack before his bunkmates, planting his bare feet on the cool metal below. Hitting the deck always heartens him, because as it turns out, ocean is not Bass’ most comfortable medium. He hasn’t really found a Marine who does relish life above the _USS Kearsarge_ : he despises the unsteady waves, Miles balks at the claustrophobia, and Bundy complains about the lack of available things to shoot.

Bass staggers toward the head to beat the rush, but as usual early risers started queuing an hour ago, the line already nearly backed up to the racks. Bass leaves behind a sleepy-eyed, yawning Miles, his shorts all bunched around his morning wood, and tries not to find him hopelessly cute. No, Bass is still furious with Miles.

Miles looks to follow Bass when he sees Crib in a bind and crouches to help the lance corporal unfuck his bootlaces, which some miscreant ( _Bass_ ) wove into an elaborate sailor’s knot.

“Fucking Puck!” Crib growls, as Miles jams the point of his knife into the knot to loosen it. Puck is Bass’ radio call sign; after all, he’s their resident prankster. Sometimes his hijinks go over better than others, but at this point in their confinement, everyone’s fuses are short.

Miles blinks away the bleariness, as he tries to make the knot his reluctant bitch. He’s not in the mood to gripe with Crib about Bass’ idiosyncrasies. He just wants his best friend back. By the time they liberate Crib’s boots, they have to choose between head call or mess, which also has a notorious queue. Nature’s call is stronger, so they both go hungry.

At 0800 first platoon gathers around LT Rupert Johnson for their daily briefing and pep talk. They’re packed into such a tight room that some of the men, Bass included, take a knee to allow everyone a clear view of the schedule scrawled on the whiteboard.

“Ya’ll look sunshiney this morning,” the pockmarked LT quips humorlessly before reciting the day’s upcoming delights. Perhaps from some raging teenage battle with acne he looks like someone chomped up his ebony face and spit it back out. “MCMAP at 0830, free time 1100, mess at 1200, open-sea training exercises at 1230…” He drones on, and Bass has to fight to keep his eyes from dragging closed. There was no coffee left by the time he made it to mess. Well at least he showered… but for what? Two and a half hours of martial arts first thing in the morning? Fucking tin-can warship. He’d wish it sunk if he weren’t on it.

Miles slips in the back late, and the LT glares at him but appears too exhausted to chew him out, leaving it his gunny sergeant. Sure enough, Miles has to squeeze right next to GySgt Christian “Texas Justice” James who fully looks him up and down with such disdain that Miles finally meets the man’s piercing hazel eyes and projects utter contrition before staring down at his feet.

After the briefing, Bass can hear the gunny tearing Miles a new one all the way to the gym. He resists the surge of sympathy. This staying mad at Miles thing is harder than it appears. But all Bass has to say to himself is, _Suck me off, baby_ , and his blood boils red-hot. Who the fuck does Miles think he is being late to briefing anyway? He deserves what he got.

On the mats, the drill sergeant is barking instructions Bass only semi-digests since Miles has taken his usual place at Bass’ side, still partners even when they’re fighting. The judo grappling they’re practicing today suits Bass’ particular temperament. Five times in a row, he successfully takes down Miles to secure him in a vicious chokehold; each time Miles turns purple and abruptly taps out. On the fifth time Miles lingers panting on the mat, and when Bass offers him a hand, Miles glares and refuses it. They’re both dripping with sweat, but Miles looks worse for the wear with great, dark circles under his arms and a line of wet along his pectoral muscles. When he stands he silently pats Garcia on the arm to request an exchange of partners. Garcia complies with only a slightly wry grin. He’s happy to give up Bundy for practice on the long-limbed, graceful Miles. Bundy fights like a rabid badger with a spur up its ass.

Another shower later, Bass finds a quiet corner in which to burn his precious hour of free time. He’d usually be sprawled out in the midst of the guys, eager for company even when he’s reading, but his bottomless sour mood has rendered his usual pleasures empty.

He tries to concentrate on his book. The LT leant him _Moby Dick_ , though the nautical theme is an irritating reminder that they’re at fucking sea instead of on land roasting Saddam and his minions. He does smile at the line, “I know not all that may be coming, but be it what it will, I’ll go to it laughing” – seems rather fitting for this Puck – when suddenly two sandy-toned boots stop before him. His smile melts to scowl.

“Hey, been looking for you.” Miles glances around for a moment. “You found solitary. Impressive.” What he means is: _Bass, the hell are you doing here alone? It’s not like you._

Miles folds his strong arms across his too-tight green t-shirt, and Bass notices a dark smudge on the left bicep creeping upward into one sleeve. It doesn’t appear to be part of his ink, unless Miles somehow slipped in another ill-conceived tattoo without Bass noticing. His left bicep features a hodgepodge of drunken misadventures, and Bass will never let Miles live down the enormous right-side pinup and her disconcertingly verdant bush.

“What’s that?” Bass points at the suspect spot, closing the book on his finger to keep his place.

“What’s what?” Miles follows Bass’ gaze and lifts up his shirt curiously, finally pulling it all the way over his head, jingling his assortment of necklace and tags (plus the fucking ring), to investigate more closely.

He’s got a series of bruises on both arms extending up his neck. They look painful. Suppressing guilt, Bass lets his eyes skim across the hair-lined pecs and the lean, stacked muscles of Miles’ abdomen. No matter how much the man eats, and he indiscriminately consumes vast amounts of everything, his ribs and hipbones always protrude like he’s a starving animal. Half-naked Miles is an irresistibly sexy sight, and dammit, Bass does feel bad about the bruises.

“Well look at that.” The corners of Miles’ lips creep upward, impressed rather than upset. “My asshole Semper Fu partner did a number on me. You’d think he was mad at me or somethin’.”

Bass grumbles, “Miles, go bitch to someone who cares,” and re-opens his book to feign concentration.

Miles pulls back on his t-shirt and plants the toe of his boot on Bass’ page. He realizes this isn’t going to blow over without an apology, and he’s determined to stamp out Bass’ sulking. Sulking is Miles’ specialty, and he doesn’t like competition for what he’s good at.

“Get your rotten fucking athlete’s foot off my book before I give you something else to cry about,” Bass bites.

Miles kicks away the book, and Bass stands in real anger, fists balled at his sides. But the taller man holds his gaze calmly, unintimidated.

Miles goes all in: “Look, man. I’m sorry about the pub. It was outta line. I won’t do it again.”

Something about the apology stings, and in a moment Bass realizes why. Bass doesn’t want to hear that Miles won’t come onto him again. He wants Miles to want him… only _respectfully_.

Miles watches the blue eyes storm. It’s not usual for Bass to be at a loss of words, so Miles continues. “You know why you said I,” he lowers his voice considerably in case anyone is within earshot, “left you? It wasn’t like you said. Or at least… it was a lot of things.”

In reality Miles _is_ disconcerted by the intensity of his passion for Bass, but he resents being told he’s gay. He resents being told he’s _anything_ , especially when he’s pretty goddamn unsure of himself.

“Like what?” Bass puts his hands on his hips and cocks his head, still eye to eye, neither man blinking.

“Like…” Miles exhales and blinks at last, not having planned to go this far. “You were draining me, man. I just don’t have your capacity for, I don’t know, emotion. And when I want a break from it, you always take it the wrong way. Emma just let me be. She gave me space to change, grow up. It’s like you never want me to change because you’re afraid I’ll leave you behind or something.”

“So it’s all _my_ fault you broke up with me?” Bass’ first reaction is defensive, but then Miles’ words begin to sink in. Until this moment, he never even considered that he could want Miles too much, that he could actually push away Miles with the force of his affection. Bass craves Miles’ attention, but Miles craves… _space_.

Unfortunately, Miles is already responding to Bass’ defensive play. “No. Shit. It’s not all about _you_. It’s also about my life and what I want. I mean is it so goddamn shocking that maybe I would want a family?”

“Miles, you’re twenty. You don’t know what you want.”

Miles’ eyes flash black. “Yeah, all right. I was a fucking idiot getting engaged at nineteen. But it did teach me something I _don’t_ want.”

“What’s that?” Hope blooms in Bass that Miles will actually answer: _women_. But he doesn’t.

“I don’t want a serious relationship with anyone right now. I just want to do my fucking job. I trained my ass off for this, and I want to get some in Iraq, man. I want to kill some mother-fucking bad guys. I want to make Granddad and Pop proud.”

Bass is still processing, but when it comes to killing bad guys he implicitly agrees. “Yeah, bud.” Suddenly, his wrath has all but dissipated.

Miles licks his lips. “Bass, you’re my brother. We’re going to war, and I don’t want to fight.”

“Me neither.”

“Then accept my apology, man. I really am sorry. I was a giant ass, and I know it.” Miles holds out his oversized hand, and Bass takes it. The warmth of Miles’ grasp spreads through Bass’ veins, providing that comfort and stability Bass had been missing.

As Miles is turning to leave, he reaches into his pocket and extracts some loose Skittles, tossing them en masse into his mouth and crunching loudly.

“The fuck you eating?”

“Breakfast and lunch.”

“You’re skipping mess again?”

“Not by choice. Texas Justice is butt-fucking me for being late: have to polish the bulkheads until he can see his pretty reflection in them. Or so he says. I’d miss the war if I scrubbed that long.” Miles’ teeth gleam.

If he missed the war. That’s what they’re all most afraid of: getting to Kuwait after a month of bobbing on the Atlantic only to watch the United States back down from a fight before they even set foot on Iraqi sand. It’s not because they think the Bush administration has the right idea invading Iraq, though they’re still pissed as hell over 9/11. It’s that they want to slay dragons, prove their mettle.

“Why were you late anyway, dipshit?”

“Well after I unfucked Crib’s laces – thanks, by the way, you wanna-be Spiderman’s sidekick infected left nut – I was caught in a queue for the head that made communist Russia look like a recess line for the Special Olympics jungle gym.” And that’s why the perpetually silent and sullen Miles’ call sign is The Poet. “But had to shit. Whatcha gonna do?”

“Worth it?”

“Oh hell yeah. It was a quality shit!” Miles exclaims with real enthusiasm. The level of satisfaction Miles gets out of a well-executed shit is on par with most guys’ fervor for a no-strings-attached fuck.

“Well, bully for you. Have fun with the bulkheads.” Bass punches Miles lightly in the arm right on one of his bruises, and he grimaces. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

“No you’re not.”

“True. You deserved it, and I loved kicking your ass.”

“I let you win.”

“No, you didn’t.”

With a wink, Miles strolls off.

Immediately, Bass departs to find his platoon. Fuck this secluded bullshit. A book goes down twice as easy when you can hear the dumbass Devil Dog next to you scratching his balls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MCMAP = Marine Corps Martial Arts Program  
> Semper Fu = how Marines lovingly refer to MCMAP ;)


	3. Wet Dreams in Kuwait

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I was on vacation. Anyway there will be another chapter on Kuwait; this one was getting too long. ;)

_February 17-March 17, 2003_  
 _Camp Shoup, Kuwait_

_There is nothing like the solid weight of Bass, straddling your hips and making luxuriant circles on your pole. The way his round, pink nipples stand out against his bronzed skin, the faintest bit of blonde trailing down to his cock pointed perfect north. Bass bites his bottom lip and makes a strained sound of pleasure as he plunges forward into the couch cushion beside Miles’ cheek. Fuck, he’s slick and smooth and so, so tight on the inside; he makes Miles’ cock feel absolutely massive. Miles runs his hand through the sweat-drenched curls, which have grown back in long and plush, just how Miles likes them. It’s then that Miles realizes they’re on Gail’s couch in the middle of the Monroe house. What are they thinking? They’ll get caught. Oh shit – Bass twists just right to wring out Miles, and he spasms violently, right up the center of his boyfriend’s tense, eager body._

Miles jerks awake. He’s lying face down on his crumpled blouse, clad only in his green t-shirt and cammo pants. He realizes right away that he’s coming and presses down hard into the thin tarp that separates him from the sand so that none of the Marines lying around him will notice his twitching. A fucking wet dream. What is he, twelve?

 _Uhhh_ , Miles lets his mind release, because he has no choice. It’s biology. Fuck, it still feels amazing, though he’s come in his underwear and that’s going to form a sticky tangle of pubic hair he’ll be stuck with for God knows how long. No showers in Camp Shoup.

Abruptly the wretchedness sinks in, because he’s never actually experienced Bass like that. They didn’t get beyond oral in the year they were together as teenagers, and he wanted it so badly. Why didn’t he push for it? He was such a fucking coward back then.

Huh, Bass as his boyfriend. There’s an interesting concoction of his horny brain. As if they could ever be _that_ , a word reserved for people in normal relationships. Goddamn, Miles didn’t realize how much he missed running his fingers through those soft, golden curls. Well, they’re gone now anyway, supplanted by a shimmering blonde buzz that, fuck, Miles wouldn’t mind raking his nails over. Pull yourself to-fucking-gether, you pathetic, little bitch.

He waits for his heart beat to calm and slows his breathing, as if he’s about to fire his rifle, before shifting to his right. And there Bass is in all his splendor, reading half-naked and reclined on his sleeping bag, one arm under his head exposing the dark blonde of his armpit and the inky M of his forearm. Miles wills himself to see Bass in a platonic light. They are way the hell out in the desert surrounded by thousands of nut-viced Marines. Miles is almost afraid someone has read his mind and will jump him for being a Dream Fag. He decides instead to focus on how shitty and uncomfortable it is being in Kuwait.

The sun has already rounded its midpoint, but this was the first chance they had to rest after staying up all night erecting tents and digging slit trenches to supplement the twelve fucking porta-johns “they,” in their infinite wisdom, have provided for the whole stinking camp. Miles thinks about blaming the colonel, then decides to indict Donald Rumsfeld, because somehow, someway it’s always a dumbfuck civilian official’s fault.

At this point, Bass briefly eyes Miles with the slightest hint of a smile. “Heard about the fried chicken, bro?”

“The what?” Miles replies rather irritably, because clearly he’s been asleep and hasn’t heard jack shit. Also he wants to be left alone, and Bass always finds a way to get a word in before Miles can drive him off.

“They’re testing chickens as chemical contamination detectors. A few already died from the heat. Crisped right up. Chick-fil-A in the Mid East!”

Miles snorts humorlessly. “Chickens? Who needs 'em when you got MOPPs. But I’ll eat ‘em long as they’re plucked.”

“Oh you’d eat ‘em feathers and all. You never bother to check what you’re inhaling-”

Miles isn’t in the mood to be badgered, so he quickly cuts off Bass, “Little privacy, man? Need a jack.” What he really needs is to try to wipe off his sticky, sodden privates.

Bass, who knows damn well Miles just came in his sleep, flashes his teeth and closes his latest book borrowed from some cowardly fucking navy chaplain: _Pilgrim’s Progress_ , which he personally feels is trite and overrated. He rises and stretches upward, the fine, toned muscles of his belly flexing.

The sight only serves to remind Miles that there’s a reason he just had a wet dream about that fucker. He’s gorgeous no matter what you try to tell yourself. Bass already looks tanner, and they’ve only been in the desert a few days, mostly on the bus to get here. His skin has a perfect golden glow, while Miles looks pasty as ever.

Unfortunately, for Miles, there is no privacy in the Marines. Bass doesn’t even have the chance to walk away before Dolan, who is perched on an MRE box videotaping two Marines grappling in their shorts, yells out, “Hey Matheson, I should tape you fucking Monroe in the ass. Monroe’s good looking as shit. We’d make a fuck-mountain of money on the internet.”

“Damn, Bundy. You gay.” Crib, who’s playing Hearts with Garcia and SGT Terrance “Tee” Floyd, shakes his head forlornly as he does every time Kelly Dolan speaks. Crib’s absolutely convinced Bundy’s the craziest psycho in the entire Corps, and there are more than a few disturbing social misfits among them.

“Well, he’s not wrong,” says Garcia, who drops the Queen of Spades on Crib, extorting an unholy howl of agony from him. “PFC Monroe is damn fine for a white boy, and I ain’t afraid to say so. Matheson and Monroe are as close as butt-lovers anyway. What’s a little fucking between friends?”

“You sick, dawg.” Crib again, scowling as he takes the toxic trick.

Bass just grins like he’s not bothered in the slightest. After all, he rather likes having his good looks complimented, and strictly speaking, he’d be pleased to have Miles fuck him in the ass.

Miles, trying not to blush as he leans casually on his arm, deploys the only defense he has: “Kelly, you wanna see some bone smuggling, then bring your fat ass right over here.” Miles pats his thigh enticingly. “If I close my eyes and say your name over and over, I might actually believe you’re a girl with a really tight, dry pussy.”

Dolan stops smirking. “I can’t help my name, fuckhole.” He’s really sensitive about the girl’s name thing.

Crib chimes back in, because even he can’t resist a round of homophobic banter, “Don’t let him toilet snake you, Bundy. Matheson’s hung like a dark-green motherfucker. Bound to hurt!”

“Fuck you all!” Dolan stows his video camera and huffs out of sight between the flaps of their platoon’s giant, shared tent. The wind beyond him howls and whines like an angry wench.

Miles looks satisfied with himself and is about to push up from his roll, when Bass offers him a hand, still grinning toothily. Miles shifts his pants – the best he can do at the moment – just as a pogue yells, “Mail call!” The pogue is covered in dust, and only then does Bass realize that Kuwaiti banshee outside is a gathering sand storm. Fucking hell.

Bass sighs as he watches Miles yank on his no doubt jizz-filled pants. Ah, to be a fly on the wall of Miles’ slumbering brain. Bass is damn horny with no fucking outlet unless he tosses himself in front of all these dick-suck nincompoops, which he’ll do when pressed but rather detests. A good jack is something every man deserves to enjoy in private.

In addition to his blue balls, Bass has another reason for discomfort: that conversation he and Miles had aboard the _Kearsarge_. It was such a shock for Miles to actually say what was on his mind that Bass is desperate to continue the conversation. It’s already apparent to Bass that for the duration of this tour, they won’t be able to secure even a moment alone. But Bass wants to know, _needs_ to know, if they make it out of this alive does Miles want him again? And if he does, could they actually forge a real relationship instead of a string of accidental half-fucks?

And then there’s always the thing gnawing at Bass from the back of his brain ever since it happened. He betrayed Miles. _He_ is the reason Miles isn’t with Emma anymore. So easy is it to stick your cock in something, he’d barely given it thought at the time, as if what’s Miles’ was also his. He was curious, lonely, left out. In certain moments he’s desperate to divulge his treachery and beg his best friend’s forgiveness, but that would be for _Bass_ – to get it off his conscience. The truth would crush Miles, and the man has a dangerous and taxing job to do out here just like everyone else. That and… fuck, that flicker of hope that Miles will want to get back together if they survive Iraq keeps Bass mum.

Well now at least there is mail to distract him.

Bass glances at Miles, feeling instantly bad for him. Miles never gets letters and being here isn’t going to change that, because that pussy Ben is too proud of his anti-war politics to support his own baby brother. In fact, as soon as Miles left for boot camp, Miles got the only two letters he’d receive as a young Marine: one from Emma ditching him and the other from his Pop reporting that he’d quit his home of 25 years in Jasper, Indiana, to move to some undisclosed location in Florida: no contact information, no explanation. Bass, contrastingly, receives loads of letters from his parents and each of his sisters, and now that he’s in a war zone his cache of material love is certain to multiply.

“Monroe!” Bass hears his name, seizes a stack of maybe ten letters – they’ve been building up over his time at sea – and settles down on an MRE box to read the news from his parents.

Immediately he extracts and tucks away the letters from Cyn and Angie. The guys are total asses about letters from young girls. Right on cue, a few of them begin hooping and hollering over an enclosed photograph of an eight year-old in braids and a plaid skirt, when her only crime was calling the “brave” men she was writing soldiers instead of Marines. Someone needs to tell elementary schools, especially Catholic ones, to stop having their kids practice their ABCs on deployed troops. It’s too cruel.

Miles hangs quietly aside and Bass is just about to invite him over to read with him, when Miles shuffles outside. Damn. Bass hates that Miles feels unloved. He always has since his mother passed. The universe is fucking unfair.

But in an instant Miles’ close-cropped raven head pokes back in, his dark eyes alight with energy. “Need all hands out here! Storm’s pulling up the tents.” No sooner have the words left his mouth than a great swath of their tent billows up and collapses on a whole section of their platoon, smothering them in an unwelcome game of parachute.

Despite the grunts’ various states of undress, they’re dutifully pulling on boots and stumbling out into a hellacious gale that would make the giant sand worms from Tremors weep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MOPP = Mission Oriented Protected Posture; uniform + gear to defend against chemical warfare  
> dark green = slang for a black Marine (light green is a white boy)  
> pogue = pejorative slang for non-combat, staff, and other rear-echelon or support units


	4. Shamal and the Meaning of Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Busy week ahead of me, so I might not update until the weekend. ;) Thanks to all who are reading and supporting this story! Marine boys make me HAPPY.

_February 17-March 17, 2003_  
 _Camp Shoup, Kuwait_

The second he’s outside, Bass’ corneas are in danger of being severed from his eyeballs by the razor-sharp, swirling sand. It’s nearly dark as night though it can’t be much past 14:00. And there is barefoot Miles standing tall in the midst of the chaos like a badass hero, the lean muscles of his inked arms flexed as he heaves ropes and swings a sledgehammer. Indeed, it’s PFC Matheson who’s instructing fellow Marines what to do, not SGT Floyd, who’s nearby looking almost dazed. Bass has to wonder about Tee, who has a pretty damn good reputation from Afghanistan. Something just isn’t right about him these days.

“Bass, get your ass over here and hold this down,” Miles booms at him.

Bass jogs right over, still shirtless in just his cammo pants and boots, sand whittling away at the tender flesh of his ribs. He notices now that several of his fellow grunts have donned their gas masks. With a flicker of envy, Bass wonders how many days it’ll be before he doesn’t cough up sand when he draws breath. He takes position in front of Miles and heaves mightily on a rope of their tent, which Miles stakes to the ground behind him.

As Miles rises from the stake to identify where he’s needed next, his sand-battered eyes skim across the muscles of Bass’ bare back at work. You know, Miles has been trying so hard not to feel something for his friend, but what the hell else does he have to appreciate out here in crap Kuwait? The toilets are worse than Third World, the food tastes like athlete’s foot, and they’re desperately afraid the United States will call off the war before they even get into combat. If Miles wants to ogle his best friend’s tasty-looking back in the middle of a fucking sandstorm, maybe he’ll let himself enjoy it for once.

Bass turns around and locks eyes with Miles’s penetrating browns. After holding his gaze for a long moment, Miles bounds away to help a few Marines who are too short to secure their flyaway. There was something private in that moment that makes the buzz in Bass’ lungs feel almost pleasant for a split second. He watches Miles’ trim ass as it bobs into the haze, becoming indistinguishable.

* * *

The long days of waiting in Camp Shoup begin with running, always fucking running. As usual on this shittastic morning in mid-March, Bass starts out in the lead – a wicked sprinter – and then yields over time to the long-distance performers, Miles among them. But they’re all hurting when the cry of “Gas! Gas! Gas!” is launched, a regular occurrence in Kuwait, and they have to don their gas masks. Unfortunately, someone in their platoon decides it’s more macho to leave the masks on long after it’s deemed a false alarm. In fact, from that morning on, they always run in their masks just to prove to each other they can.

After the run and a nice AM dump in one of the coveted porta-johns, Miles borrows Garcia’s battery-powered clippers and goes in search of Bass for a haircut. Miles doesn’t even consider letting someone else do it for him. It’s just one of thousands of unspoken intimacies the boys share with each other. Sometimes the other Alphas mock them as The Twins, but it’s pretty difficult not to be jealous of their multilayered and even mysterious bond. Miles finds Bass talking to someone he doesn’t recognize in slapdash fatigues. Must be a civilian.

The stocky, ginger-haired man looks Miles up and down, who is still wearing his sweat-soaked, too-tight PT gear, and Miles almost feels self-conscious until he opts for self-righteous instead. He whips his head around to interrogate Bass, “Who the hell is-”

“PFC Miles Matheson, meet Bravo’s new pet: Ryan Dunlap.” Bass’ teeth sparkle in the scalding sunlight. At Miles’ evident confusion he clarifies, “Embedded reporter. Need a shave?”

“Huh?” Miles has his hands on his hips in an accusatory fashion, the clippers dangling from his large fingers, when he realizes Bass is asking him a question he actually cares to answer. “Oh, yeah. High and tight.”

Bass’ smile fades to smirk. “I know how you like it, dickwad. Sit down.”

Miles slides over an MRE crate and perches on it as Bass begins to buzz his hair. Dunlap has out his flip pad, and Miles rolls his eyes at it.

“Now Miles, you play nice,” Bass urges, watching the excess raven fuzz fall away. “Reporter’s from Indy. He’s friend, not foe.”

Miles continues to stare stoically ahead. Bass has to admit he rather loves his best friend’s tough-guy act. It’s fucking endearing. He would ruffle Miles’ hair in affection if there were any left.

“So what do you gents think of Camp Shoup?” Dunlap inquires casually.

Miles’ instant scowl instructs him to direct all questions to Bass or be slayed by silent loathing.

“PFC Monroe?” Dunlap half-grins and corrects himself.

“This hell hole? Weren’t nothin’ but a square of sand with a ten-foot berm around its perimeter before we improved it with our slit trenches and cheery dispositions.” Bass likes to play like he’s your average Whiskey Tango when he’s meeting outsiders, but he’s one of the few enlisted men in his platoon with any college education. He gives himself away almost immediately when he rubs Miles’ freshly shorn head triumphantly and recites stentorianly to it: “There’s many a man hath more hair than wit.”

Dunlap nods happily in response. “Shakespeare! That’s great! Where did you go to school?”

“In your mother’s vagina,” offers Miles helpfully, standing and signaling for Bass to take his place on the crate for his own turn. Lately Bass prefers an even buzz to a high and tight.

Bass beams at Miles’ predictable vitriol and explains, “Purdue but only for a bit. I got arrested and lost my baseball scholarship. Joined the Marines with this paste-muncher instead. Miles can barely read so don’t ask him about his schooling. Sore subject.”

Miles sighs above him, though less so over the insults to his intelligence. He’ll never understand his friend’s need to divulge personal information to complete strangers.

“Arrested for what?” Dunlap cuts through the banter to the beef.

Bass peeks up at Miles’ subtle headshake and replies, “Not important,” with a friendly wink. He is a natural charmer.

Dunlap tries Miles one more time. “What about you, Matheson? Why’d you enlist?”

Miles doesn’t even bother to look at him as a thin spray of blonde explodes from Bass’ crown under the clippers.

Bass answers for him, “Miles wants to slay dragons.”

Remaining stolid, Miles’ tongue darts between his lips.

Dunlap licks his pointer to turn the page of his notebook, before looking back at Bass. “So I hear you Timberwolves are low on essentials – batteries for your night optics, for instance. Does that make you nervous, knowing you’ll be crossing into Iraq in a few days?”

Miles and Bass exchange another look. Bass answers, “Marines are always short on everything. The fucking Navy only thinks to lobby for ships. Just six fucking cents of every DOD dollar is spent on the Corps. So we scrounge, we improvise, we make due. Just remember Reporter, you roll with us, you roll with the best.”

“Even blind?”

“We shoot even straighter in the dark. Wait and see.”

Dunlap wanders off smiling at his notes, while Miles chastises Bass, “Why did you talk to that son-of-a-bitch?”

“Aw come on, brother. He’s not so bad. He’s going into combat with us.”

“He’s a fucking civvie.”

“Welp. He better be a brave civvie if he’s gonna invade Iraq. Hey, maybe we can get him to buy us some adult diapers!” Bass suggests exuberantly.

“I’m not shitting in my pants,” Miles grumbles and folds his arms.

“Mmhm. Think you’re too proud to shit in your pants, but you’ll see. The Afghanistan vets say that on long rides it all comes down to two types of grunts: the man with adult diapers and the man who has to throw away his only pair of underwear dirty.”

“Fuck that. I shit like a champ, and you know it,” Miles asserts with supreme confidence.

Bass stands and clamps a hand on Miles’ broad shoulder, agreeing with a quick flash of his teeth, “A tactical shitter.”

Both boys silently re-don their bulky, charcoal-lined MOPPs, minus the clunky boots. It feels like gas alerts happen almost every day now, and they’re all anxious about chemical weapons. After all, Saddam’s WMDs are why they’re here, right? Instantly the heat becomes unbearably oppressive, and they begin sweating at the double-quick.

They meander over to their tent and duck inside for some shade to the familiar olfactory assault of body odor and farts. Miles slings Garcia his clippers, before plopping down on his roll, while Bass selects an MRE box at the center of the ring where most of Alpha is shooting the shit about their impending departure. They are to pile into AAVs to take Nasiriyah, securing a supply route through the city. Their first objectives are two bridges, one over the Euphrates River and the other over Saddam Canal. The Marines are jumpy because intel has it that the Iraqi 11th Infantry Division packs civilian clothes so that they can melt away into the general population at will. Identifying the enemy could be very difficult.

The Marines converse for roughly an hour before Garcia flicks his dark brown eyes at Miles, stretched out and staring. Garcia asks no one in particular, “What do you think the Poet is thinkin’ ‘bout over there on his lonesome?”

Bass snorts, briefly regarding the fine edges of Miles’ profile. “Why don’t you ask him?”

Bass has known Miles basically forever, and to know Miles is to watch him stare. Bass engages in a fair amount of needling Miles for thinking so much, but generally he likes that Miles is an internal person. In fact, it rather fascinates him. It’s like the man is filled with secrets even Miles has yet to discover.

“Hey, Poet. Whachu thinkin’ ‘bout?” Garcia hollers over.

Miles’ complex, chocolatey eyes shift over to Garcia. Then entirely deadpan: “I’m thinking about your Mexican mama’s six-children-billowy pussy, and how I’d have to shove in my dick with at least twenty dildos to get a tight fit.”

“Aw fuck you, Miles.” Garcia manages to wave him off, though clearly vexed. “I oughta kill you for rippin’ on my mama, but your Whiskey Tango ass ain’t worth it. Anyway, you just jealous cuz you ain’t got no mama.”

At that Miles fixes his eyes back on the tent sky, unreadable.

Bass watches the exchange transpire, and after a pause comes over and flops down next to his brother. Miles started it by going after Garcia’s mother, but Bass still doesn’t like where that ended. After all, Miles cried on Bass’ shoulder when his mother perished after a gruesome decline from stomach cancer in fourth grade. Bass thinks he can always detect that softness in Miles’ deep browns where the abandoned nine year-old perpetually resides.

“Doubt you were dreaming of old woman snatch, so what’s actually on your mind?” Bass asks him gently.

Miles glances at Bass and shrugs, keeping it professional. “Wanna smoke check some Hajis.”

Bass nods. They say some version of this nearly every day to one another, antsy as they are to get on with it.

“Hope I don’t suck at it.” Miles holds Bass’ bright blue gaze this time.

And when Bass offers, “Me too,” resting his hand briefly on Miles’ shoulder, Miles gives Bass’ long, slender fingers a pat back.

Just days later they’re out with the other Timberwolves listening to a motivational speech by none other than the Timberwolf himself, Lt. Col. Rick Grabowski, about to embark for the Iraqi border. Bass and Miles are side by side at attention in full gear – flak jackets, MOPPs, kevlars and all – when they shout with utter conviction, “Kill!”

It’s what they’ve trained their asses off for, and at the moment they want it more than sex or love or even a future. They would give anything to put a bullet in an Iraqi’s brain.

That’s what Ryan Dunlap writes in his little notepad, and he’s not wrong. But what he overlooks now and won’t later is the thing that matters more to each Marine: watching the back of the guy next to you. These Marines won’t put down their rifles until they leave hostile territory. They won’t let each other down under any circumstances.

It’s something far less fickle than love. It’s camaraderie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shamal = northwesterly wind that sweeps up sand storms in Iraq and the Persian Gulf  
> Whiskey Tango = Marine lingo for white trash  
> “There’s many a man hath more hair than wit.” = Shakespeare, The Comedy of Errors 2:2  
> Timberwolves = call sign for 1/2 Marines  
> AAVs = Amphibious Armored Vehicles, aka amtracs or simply tracks  
> Haji or Hajji = derogatory term for Arabs used by some U.S. military servicepeople  
> Flak jacket = body armor  
> Kevlar = helmet  
> "Kill!" = Marine battle cry; also "Oorah!"


	5. Off Roading

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is not the most action-packed chapter, but well, boredom is a large part of war. I promise a big battle and lots of personal drama in the next chapter.

_March 22, 2003_  
 _Approach to Nasiriyah, Iraq_

“—and what fucktard decided to issue us forest-camo MOPPS anyway? I mean, look around us. It’s a turd streak of sand as far as the eye can see. I wouldn’t even _remember_ the color green if I weren’t wearing it like a neon Kill-Me sign around my neck. The planners of this fuckfest must have risen from the ninth circle of retardation. I need to air out my balls, goddammit!”

It seems to Miles that Bass has maintained an unabated monologue for the entire two days of non-stop driving without food or sleep since disembarking Camp Shoup. Bass’ voice, slightly scratchy under normal circumstances, sounds positively hoarse. You’d think that would at least give him pause, but it doesn’t seem to have an effect.

Of all things, they’ve ended up in the claustrophobic backseat of a Humvee with Crib at the wheel, SGT Tee in the passenger seat, manning the radios, and Bundy up top on the gun. The rest of Alpha is on tracks. Could they be anymore exposed in the midst of all this armor?

The only time their vehicle halted in the last forty-eight hours was when it got epically log-jammed at the intersection of Highways 1 and 8. So far America’s biggest problem in Iraq appears to be sorting out its own clusterfuck of convoys.

Miles had seized the brief pause to answer nature’s call on the side of the highway – no easy feat in his MOPP gear. At lightning speed off came the ceramic-tiled flak jacket, the MOPP jacket, the suspenders, and the numerous clips holding everything in place, until Miles’ pale, bare moon loomed triumphantly above the dust. Marines ogled as Capt. Brooks’ voice squawked ferociously over the radio, but Miles executed an impressive tactical shit under pressure without even breaking a sweat. The men cheered up and down the line.

When Brooks suddenly ordered the Timberwolves cross-country, the celebration swiftly dissipated, and the grunts resumed their vigils. Word from the top is friendlies are on the road, Hajis in the sand. Welcome to the sand.

“LCPL Williams, we’re Oscar Mike,” Tee barks at Crib’s evident hesitation to depart the safety of pavement, and they wheel off in a puff.

Sensing the rising apprehension in the Humvee, Bass feels it’s his duty to disarm it with more conversation. “So I overheard Lt. Johnson talking with Capt. Brooks, and both of them think division command is full of shit believing the Iraqis won’t resist in Nasiriyah. They say the paramilitaries – Fedayeen and Ba’ath Militia – will put up a stiff fight; after all, they have the most to lose from the fall of Saddam’s regime. They’ll attack in civvie clothes and not with AKs but suicide bombs, ambushes, WMDs.”

Bumping across the desert and enduring Bass’ (disquietingly on-point) prattle, someone is bound to snap. Sure enough, the testiest breaks first.

“Bass, I swear to God. Shut the fuck up, or I will shut you up.” Miles, of course. He barely glances at his friend before staring back over his rifle aimed out the window.

“Well,” Bass responds unperturbed. “I’m fine with smoking Hajis in pajamas as long as I get to brush my fucking teeth first. No sleep, no food? Welcome to a typical day in the Corps. But no oral hygiene? That’s gotta be a fucking Geneva Convention violation.”

“Watch your fucking sector, Monroe,” bites a very tense Tee.

At the order of his sergeant, Bass clamps his mouth shut dourly. He doesn’t like being accused of not doing his job. No one else is making any effort to keep up morale on this endless trek across what has got to be the most barren, featureless country in the world. They should be grateful.

Hours later, Crib abruptly breaks the silence in his New Orleans drawl, “She getting crunk in the club, I mean she working!”

Bass gripes, “Why’s it always gotta be rap?”

“Light green motherfuckers like you just don’t get it,” Crib asserts, tapping his hands on the wheel to the internal rhythm of Lil Jon. But Crib knows very well there’s one white boy in the car who can’t resist any kind of singing for too long. “Pa pop yo pussy like this… we all like to see ass and titties.”

The faintest smile flits at Miles’ lips, and when Crib hurtles himself in the chorus, Miles joins right in. “3,6,9, damn you’re fine! Move it so you can sock it to me one mo’ time. Get low, Get low!”

“Hee. See Matheson, dawg, you an honorary black man with your inner fount of rap just waiting to be tapped into.”

Miles shrugs. He has a good memory for song lyrics is all. He mumbles, “I hadn’t even met a black person before I joined the Corps.”

Bass muffles his shock. Sometimes he forgets how provincial Miles is. The farthest Miles had ever been from home before enlisting was West Lafayette, three hours north of Jasper to visit Bass at college.

In a rare spate of unsolicited discourse, Miles continues, “My pop is the kind of man who’s happy to serve alongside you in ‘Nam, Crib, but if you tried to move into his neighborhood, he’d chase you out with a pitchfork.”

“Hm. You digest that racist shit your whole life, you’re liable to believe it. You a Whiskey Tango racist, Poet?” Crib asks nonchalantly.

Miles shrugs again. “I equal-opportunity hate all humans. But I do find your dark green face uglier than most grunts.”

“Shit. You can’t miss an opportunity for a jab.” Crib shakes his head, and they all silently take stock of their sloshing organs as the Humvee lofts over a berm.

Then, somehow at the exact same moment, Crib and Miles resume, “To the window, to the wall! Till the sweat drops down my balls. Till all these bitches crawl!”

Bass can’t resist coming in on the echo, “MY BALLS,” grinning widely.

Even Tee cracks a smile only to be obliterated by the sudden _pop, pop, pop_ of gunfire.

Bass’ voice instantly clicks into professional gear. “Sir, I’ve got muzzle flashes on the driver’ side at 8 o’clock.”

The entire team holds their breaths as Tee radios it in. It’s inaccurate, indirect fire, and much to their collective disappointment, the DPICMs of 1/10’s artillery pound it into submission without a single rifleman firing a shot.

That night they actually stop long enough to dig ranger graves and get some shut-eye. At first light 1/2 will drive straight through Ambush Alley to secure the bridges on the eastern side of Nasiriyah. As bad as that sounds, it will prove far, far worse.

Miles, who has been filling his and Bass’ water bottles at the supply truck, hops into their shared grave under some cammo netting only to find that Bass has fallen asleep, toothbrush gripped loosely at his chest, a little froth of toothpaste on his bottom lip. Looking around to make sure no one is watching, Miles swipes the white away with his dirty thumb, swallowing the intense affection he feels for his best friend. All his irritation of the last two days is swiftly supplanted by a grateful burning in his chest at Bass’ consistent effort to keep the men upbeat.

Forced to go to Catholic church for eighteen years, none of it stuck, but even so, Miles sends up a little prayer to no one in particular: _Please let Sebastian Monroe live_. Then he takes off his boots for the first time in over two days and nearly passes out from the mingled odor of moldy cheese and decaying corpse. He curls up next to Bass’ warm body like he’s found his littermate and sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oscar Mike = On the Move  
> “Get Low” = a February 2003 hit by Lil Jon & the East Side Boyz featuring the Ying Yang Twins  
> DPICMs = dual-purpose improved conventional munitions, artillery projectiles that explode above the target and release grenades  
> Ranger grave = holes Marines dig to sleep in


	6. An Nasiriyah

_March 23-24, 2003_

“Up and at ‘em, Twins, we’re Oscar Mike.” A piercing flash of Garcia’s moonbeam in the face jolts Bass into consciousness.

“Sir,” Bass mumbles before he’s really awake. In one hand still dangles his toothbrush and in the other his rifle. He glances to his right where Miles is tucked against his side, toasty and comforting in the chilly desert morning, face buried in Bass’ chemical-retardant sleeve. There’s something sweet and peaceful about the posture, and Bass hates to wake him. It’s actually worrisome how much Bass’ chest stings at the sight.

_It’s love, romantic love_ , a voice inside Bass insists. Because this tremendous desire he’s staggering under isn’t even about getting back inside Miles’ pants, as much as he fantasizes about that big, slightly battered-looking cock. No, it’s about holding Miles tightly in his arms and hearing his heart beat. Fuck, Bass is lovesick, isn’t he?

He lays a hand on Miles’ shoulder and shakes him lightly. “Miles, wake up. We’re moving out.”

Miles stirs and opens his eyes, black and shimmery in the pre-dawn darkness. He yawns, stretching his long arms, rifle extended to the sky. As Miles dons his kevlar, Bass hops out of their grave and extends down a hand, evidently clasping Miles’ for a hair longer than appropriate because Miles tilts his head in inquisition before Bass thinks to turn away. They gather up their netting, Miles stopping briefly to piss. Again Bass has to force himself to drag his eyes away. He finds he’s inordinately interested in watching Miles take out his dick, not from some perverse sexual urge, but because everything Miles does, especially the mundane, is suddenly beautiful and hypnotic. Bass tries to shake it off as overactive nerves and a goddamn early morning.

* * *

By the time their convoy is on the outskirts of Nasiriyah, they feel like they’ve landed on another planet. For one thing, the south bank is inundated with palm trees – happy, green plumes that belong in Florida by some plastic flamingos, not here in the armpit of Saddam’s resistance. But the bigger shock to the system is the swift transition to real Iraqi resistance.

The Timberwolves have the most armor, and were therefore selected to lead the charge into the city with Bravo (traveling with none other than the colonel himself) in the lead. Just one hour after Garcia assaulted Bass’ eyelids with his flashlight, the boys learn what it feels like to be shot at and how quickly the best laid plans go to shit.

After numerous fueling delays, their convoy grinds to a dead stop in the midst of a hailstorm of bullets for a tank to be hauled out of a sobka – the Iraqi version of a crème brûlée. Then, over the radios, the boys listen as Bravo comes across the bedraggled remnants of the Army 507th Maintenance company, who apparently mistakenly veered off into Nasiriyah and were ambushed. They’d taken casualties and lost some captured (one of whom would prove to be PFC Jessica Lynch). The hell is going on? Hasn’t the army heard of maps? GPS? Now the Marines have to organize a rescue operation to save their sorry asses, but it won’t involve the boys. Honestly, the boys won’t even hear the name Jessica Lynch until they are State side again. After pressing onward, Bravo temporarily loses communications, takes heavy enemy fire, and has to call in the Cobras to clean house.

Finally, Alpha is allowed to follow Bravo across the Euphrates Bridge to set up a perimeter on the edge of the city. Tracers zoom overhead, sparse at first and then thickening. Both boys return fire out their respective windows, but they can’t even see what they’re shooting at. They haven’t actually hit anything yet this morning.

Bass is frustrated. He’d heard from countless veterans of combat that when you finally get into battle your senses heighten to the level of superhero. You can hear the buzz of a fly’s wings, see the glint of an enemy’s rifle half a mile away. But at the moment, everything is fuzzy and surreally slow. He’s petrified that he’ll get through an actual engagement without having hit a single bad guy. It would be too disappointing to bear.

SGT Tee suddenly barks, “Everyone out!”

It’s a different story beyond the comfort of the Humvee. Bass ducks behind a berm just as a bullet tears into the metal door behind his head. His heart stops for a moment – _You almost died, you stupid fuck_ – and then he begins to return fire. Miles hits the dust next to him, elbow to elbow, and Bass watches him discharge a deadly accurate shot that explodes the head of a Fedayeen wailing on them from behind a wall. Miles pauses, as if shocked, and then it’s Bass’ turn to take out the guy who pops up in the dead man’s place. Bass’ bullet rips a hole into the dead center of his neck, rending his jugular with a cherry-red burst.

It’s then that Bass realizes the veteran Marines were right, but it’s the intensified smell that most intrigues him. He inhales the metallic blood sprayed on the wall from their kills along with a whiff of what Miles had for breakfast off the man’s breath: an egg omelet. Christ, that’s the world’s worst MRE. Bass no longer worries that he won’t kill anyone today; he worries how much blood he’ll have on his conscience instead. Even so, he levels his rifle and shoots another civilian-clothed, AK-toting Haji dead. These aren’t men; they are targets. They are motherfucking targets.

Miles, for his part, is relieved to find that their training holds. Both of them are damn good shots and a fine team at that. His heart rate is nice and steady. The adrenaline enhances his vision to fucking bionic. He’s always wondered what it’s like to meditate, and well, maybe this is as close as he’ll ever get. Each kill rolls over him with satisfaction, but he’s dimly aware that his brain is logging these away somewhere dark. He and Bass calmly waste enemy assailants, their sector swept clean before anyone else’s. During a break in the action, Miles has the insane urge to hug Bass both out of pride for their accomplishment and also… well Miles can’t describe the other vague emotion. For as long as he can remember Miles has felt intensely burdened by his need to delineate right from wrong. He can will away gray; oh yes, he can. Instead of hugging Bass, Miles locks onto his best friend’s staggeringly bright blue eyes that mirror the desert sky.

At that moment a grenade lands between the boys, and they both duck their heads waiting for it to blow them to hell. But cracking their eyelids just enough, they see it’s not a grenade at all; it’s a goddamn piece of shrapnel. When they realize their error they abruptly crack up – Bass laughs out loud rolling over onto his back and gripping his belly (and his rifle, of course), Miles burying his face in his arms in a silent fit. Apparently the serenity they feel in combat is punctuated by absurd emotional outbursts.

Their heads snap up at incoming tracers, and immediately they return to the zone. Garcia runs toward them and dives behind their berm, taking a graze in the calf for his trouble. He looks at Miles and Bass momentarily (during which both of their mouths hang open), and then tourniquets his lower leg and tells them to “keep shooting, you fucking morons,” which is exactly what he returns to doing. At the next lull, Garcia scampers away toward his goal of one of the tracks, where he intends to collect ammo. Apparently, he’s just fucking dandy.

“Do you think we should…” Bass begins to ask before both whip their heads toward the north side of the city at the shriek of A-10s.

“Warthogs,” Miles mutters needlessly. “Isn’t Charlie…” He doesn’t finish his question either. Both men know that Charlie passed through their position up what is already being referred to as “Ambush Alley” through the center of the city toward Saddam Canal. Company C is _right_ in the midst of the strafing runs.

While the bombing rages, some of Charlie’s tracks come roaring back into Alpha’s lines, men stumbling out of what the boys now see are shot-up, sizzling hunks of metal, hardly held together in some places.

“Corpsman up!” Bass screams before he even realizes that he’s catching a stumbling Marine missing half his face. The man’s dead before Bass can even peel him off his chest, leaving a lurid smear of chunky maroon. It dawns on Bass that this is the first dead person he’s ever seen up close besides Miles’ mother and his own grandfather. And neither of them resembled… pulp. Bass lets the heavy weight tumble into the arms of the corpsman who has just arrived and staggers toward Miles who supports him with a strong arm.

They lock eyes again, blue on black, and don’t have to say what they’re both thinking: Charlie is shot up bad, not by enemy AKs or RPGs… by 30 mm’s fired at 70 rounds a second by fucking American Gatling guns. _Friendly_ fire.

Sure enough, in runs Charlie’s XO Lt. Eric Meador from a smoking Humvee hollering at anyone who will listen: “Radio it in! It’s blue on blue! Cut the air support!”

Miles steadies Bass’ arm again, and yells to Meador, “Sir, radio’s that way,” pointing toward their Humvee. Then he looks at Bass once more. “You okay, Bass?”

Bass adjusts his kevlar and nods. “Yeah. I… fuck. We don’t need the Hajis, man, we’ll just finish ourselves with these idiot officers. Who the fuck made that call?”

Miles shakes his head, and they sink back down into position. Yeah, he’s fucking angry too, but his brain is whirring trying to sort out the origin of the problem. It occurs to him how dangerous it is that they’re all so eager to get in on the action. Combat is chaotic, confusing; you have to learn to wait, take in a bigger picture than your perspective, and shoot smart. If he ever gets the chance to pass down advice to fresh grunts, that’s what he’d tell them. For now… there’s nothing he and Bass can do.

Meador’s call to battalion command must work, because in a matter of minutes the A-10s barrel away. At this point within Alpha’s lines there are more casualties than Miles can count without losing track – mainly from Charlie company, of course. But you know, Bass _can_ count.

“Over thirty dead or wounded, bud. _Shit_.”

Miles swallows hard.

“PFCs Monroe and Matheson on me!” hurtles an order from SGT Tee behind them. In a second both boys stand before Tee awaiting instructions. “You’re with me. We’re hoping on a track and going up to relieve the rest of Charlie like we shoulda hours ago.”

“Yes, sir!” they answer in unison.

Suddenly, it’s their turn on Ambush Alley. They’re on edge expecting the worst, rifles whipping around to every shadow in the stark buildings, but as the track pushes through the city and makes contact with the rearguard of Charlie, intermittent fire dies to a trickle and finally extinguishes altogether. It’s hard not to feel badass. Alpha rolls in, and the Hajis split. All the men inside the Amtrac cheer, high on victory. Somehow they’ve saved the day… better late than never.

* * *

On the other side of Saddam Canal, Lt. Johnson gathers the platoon for a briefing. The heat inside their kevlars and MOPPs is almost unbearable.

“You did well today, boys. Oorah.”

“Oorah, sir!” Chants the platoon as one voice.

“We’re to set up a roadblock here to keep militants from egressing. Order is only Americans get through. Some of the vehicles trying to evacuate are bound to be civilians, so we’ll erect barriers and fire warning shots… However, when it comes down to it, if a vehicle does not respond and you feel threatened in any way, you are well within the rules of engagement to fire to kill. Understood?”

“Yes sir!”

Johnson nods, but Bass notes his evident disquiet and it turns his stomach. Johnson continues, the sun glinting off his ebony, pock-marked cheeks, “I know we’re all a little shaken up by what happened to Charlie today, but we have to focus on the mission before us. A few of you have been asking me about casualties, and here’s what I know: in all, Company C lost 18 killed, between 14 to 19 wounded, 5 tracks destroyed, and 2 abandoned. I don’t have names yet, but I’ll keep you posted on when a service will be held. Once the roadblock’s up and running, ya’ll can check equipment, wash up, eat a meal, and sleep in teams. Gunny Sgt. James will let your team know when it’s your turn. Dismissed.”

“Sir!”

Alpha’s roadblock will prove the end of Miles’ perceived dominion over gray.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sobka = a deceptively secure-seeming sandy crust over sticky tar. “Crème brûlée” is how Lt. Nate Fink describes the sobka in his memoir _One Bullet Away_.  
>  MRE = Meal Ready to Eat; rations  
> blue on blue = friendly fire


	7. On Saddam Canal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The under the Humvee scene is based on a scene from _Generation Kill_.
> 
> Thanks again to those reading, commenting, and kudosing! It means a lot! xo

_March 25-26, 2003_

With the roadblock up and running, it’s the boys’ turn to tend to their personal needs. Without hesitation or orders, the first thing a Marine does is clean his weapon; he does it before addressing his filth, his gnawing hunger, or even his pressing bowels. Every Marine a rifleman, every Marine’s rifle his most prized appendage.

Texas Justice has somehow managed to sequester Bass off to the side, concerning Bass that he’s about to get some unpleasant assignment that will eat into his allotted tooth-brushing and nuts-washing time. Bass is pretty sure he’s grown a second skin of grime. It kind of freaks him out if he thinks about it too much. Glancing over at Miles, Bass isn’t surprised to see that his best friend has plopped on an ammo crate slightly distant from the others to pull apart his rifle. Some people think Miles is a dick when he does stuff like that, but Bass knows Miles is just an introvert. He’s restoring his energy; he’s thinking about… whatever it is Miles thinks about. Always the great mystery, Bass smiles to himself.

“GySgt. James, sir?” Bass drags his eyes away from his friend’s buzzed chestnut hair and matching chocolatey eyes to give Texas Justice his respectful attention.

“Monroe, I want you to keep an eye on PFC Dolan,” the gunny drawls. It always takes Bass an extra beat to decipher coherent English through his thick, Texas accent. The thing is, when Christian James is talking to you, he’s usually saying something useful. Dude was in the Gulf War, Bosnia, Afghanistan. He’s not some dipshit, evolution-denying, cotton-picking… okay so Bass might have a longstanding, unexplained prejudice against Texans, despite his love of BBQ.

Taken aback by the request Bass clarifies, “Bundy?”

“Yes, private, and do yourself a favor and don’t call him that around senior NCOs and officers. It’s a bit… on the nose.”

“Yes, sir.” Bass stands up a little straighter. He’s totally confused here. The gunny has an extra set of eyes and ears on the back of his head; what the hell does he need Bass for? “Uh, but sir… what do you expect me to do exactly?”

“Just don’t exclude him. I see you guys pulling away from him when what he needs is a role model. You know, someone to show him that wasting dogs isn’t cool.”

For a moment Bass thinks James’ stony face is going to crack into a smile, but it doesn’t, of course. His drill sergeant glare is a thing of art. A breeze drags the sand into a lazy swirl, and Bass longs to take off his kevlar and let it dry his sweat. He tries not to look too impatient.

“So basically you’re asking me to be nice to Bu-Kelly and encourage him not to shoot animals, sir?”

“Yep.”

“Roger that, sir. But… if you don’t mind my asking, why _me_?”

“Well don’t let it go to your head, but the privates look up to you and Matheson. I think both of you will make fair NCOs when you’re eligible. Might as well break you in now.”

This is enormous praise from the understated James, and Bass flashes all his teeth.

“Why doesn’t Miles have to babysit?” Bass inquires, feeling rather like he’s bitching to his Ma over doing the dishes.

The gunny rolls his eyes – he probably does feel like all their mothers half the time – and they both glance over at Miles who is gently tapping the bullets from his magazines to clean them as if they’re delicate robin’s instead of deadly projectiles. His tongue has poked between his lips in concentration. Bass’ smile broadens, but GySgt. James shakes his head.

“Matheson shows initiative and problem solving under duress that could earn him a commission some day. Just today he made some suggestions on the barriers that got the lieutenant’s attention. But he’s shit with people, and when _you’re_ not too busy showing off, that’s where you excel.”

“Thank you, sir. Seeing a little combat makes you positively fulsome in your praise.”

James glares. “Just because we’re in a war zone doesn’t mean I wouldn’t enjoy watching you do a hundred push-ups, private.”

“Yes, sir!”

“You’re dismissed.”

Well shit, now Bass is going to have to spend the rest of this tour playing wet nurse to that kitten-kicker, Bundy. It occurs to him that it would have been normal procedure for the gunny to go to SGT Floyd with an issue like this. The fact that James bypassed Tee confirms Bass’ impression that everyone’s noticed his sergeant is unreliable. Fan-fucking-tastic.

By the time Bass reaches Miles, his friend has leaned his rifle against an ammo crate to strip off his MOPPs. As Bass tosses aside his kevlar and dismantles his own weapon, he occasionally glances up at Miles’ elegant, bare back and his lean, tattooed arms. The view only gets better when Miles douses his head with his canteen, vaguely chlorinated-smelling water meandering down the taut muscles. Miles rubs his armpits, and though he’s turned away from Bass, Bass can tell he reaches into the front of his pants to scrub himself there too. Bass swallows at the distant memory of wiry hair and silken skin. If he really strains he can almost recall that sweat and clay-taste of Miles’ cock. It makes his mouth water. He clamps his thighs shut and distracts himself from the blood pooling in his groin by talking.

“Man, you should air out your feet too. You always forget your feet.”

“Don’t forget ‘em, just don’t want to smell ‘em,” Miles shoots a playful glance over his shoulder. His lovely, dark eyes dance.

“Yeah, well they’ll only get worse,” Bass shakes his head, and then it dawns on him. Miles’ tags have flicked over his shoulder when he turned his head. No glint of diamond. Maybe it’s prying, but Bass can’t help himself. Immediately, he asks, “Hey, where’s the ring?”

Miles’ shoulders stiffen, but he bends down to unlace his boots and remove his shoes and shocks. God, his feet are potent; their moldy cheese penetrates all the way over to Bass. After a few minutes of watching Miles pour water over his bare feet, Bass has pretty well convinced himself that Miles is ignoring him.

As suspected, Miles’ feet are intolerably putrid even to him. They’re all white and shriveled, and Christ, he wants to gag. Bass is right of course; he needs to take off his boots more often. Yes, he’s aware Bass asked him a question, but the truth is, he’s embarrassed Bass has noticed the absence of the ring on his chain. His cheeks are hot, and he’s afraid Bass can tell from the back of his neck that he’s blushing. Miles and his pathetic broken engagement. It’s his least favorite topic.

It was right before they left Camp Shoup. Miles sealed the ring in an envelope with a brief note to Gail Monroe. He honestly couldn’t think of a single other person on earth who would help him out that’s not, well, Bass. And Bass is here with him.

_Dear Gail,_

_Sorry if this is an odd request. I’ve enclosed the ring I gave to Emma Bennett. If you wouldn’t mind taking it to Mr. Grove’s pawn shop. I don’t care what he gives you for it. Please give the cash to the girls. I want them to have it. Thank you. I hope you all are well._

_Sincerely,_  
 _Miles_

As soon as the envelope was out of his hands, Miles felt a little empty. He’d always thought that Emma… admired him, and truthfully, he liked that. He misses it. Somehow Miles manages to cobble together bottomless self-loathing and a hero complex. He both dreads and craves attention, if that’s possible. Fuck. Frankly, he feels a hell of a lot more at home here in a war zone than he ever did in civilian life. Aw Christ, now he’s been silent for so many minutes, Bass probably thinks he’s just being a dick and ignoring him.

“I got rid of it,” Miles mumbles and plops down on his ammo crate next to Bass to put back on his boots, his pale torso beginning to pinken in the desert sun.

Bass gives him a look like, _No shit. I waited five minutes for that answer?_ and rolls his eyes. Bass tries a different approach. “You finally let her go, man?”

Miles shrugs and pulls on his green t-shirt over his head. “I let her go a while ago, Bass. I just finally let _it_ go.”

“ _It_?”

“Home n’ stuff, I guess.”

Bass studies Miles’ face for a moment and then goes back to cleaning his rifle. _Miles has found his place in the world_ , Bass thinks. He’s glad for him, he really is. The thing is, for Bass it’s not really so much the Corps, though it does suit his desire for adventure and his sociability. No, for Bass his place is at Miles’ side. Whatever they’re doing, if they’re doing it together, Bass is happy. That was one of the major problems with college, and why Bass wasn’t particularly devastated to leave. He had no drive to go on that journey alone. Maybe it sounds a little pathetic, like some sappy love song, but hell, it’s the truth.

Bass grins a little and starts singing while reassembling his gun, “You’re the best friend that I ever had. I’ve been with you such a long time. You’re my sunshine, and I want you to know that my feelings are true. I really love you. You’re my best friend.”

Miles snorts. Queen? Really, Bass? But he comes in anyway on the, “Ooh, you make me live,” with gusto. The other Marines scattered nearby can’t resist either. Of course, _they’re_ just singing to their rifles.

* * *

It’s their team’s turn to man the checkpoint. Miles has his eyes trained on the dusty gray stretch of highway, but occasionally they flit over to SGT Floyd next to him. The knuckles on Tee’s rifle are white. If he tries to shoot that agitated, he’s bound to miss. Miles thinks about saying something, but he can’t come up with anything that sounds appropriate to say to a superior. He just keeps his mouth shut and refocuses on the road.

Bundy bellows, “Sir, I see some movement in the sand at 10 o’clock!” That’s behind them.

“Well, go check it out, private!” Tee barks with a nervous glance.

“Sir, if it’s bad guys, can I shoot ‘em?”

“Yes! Go check it the fuck out!”

Bundy bounds off and almost instantly they hear him squeezing off some shots.

“Aw, shit!” Bass mutters and is already scrambling up from his knees next to Miles to check on Bundy, just as Tee orders:

“What the?- someone go see what the hell Bundy is shooting at- fuck, here comes a van!”

“On it, sir!” Bass yells over his shoulder, just catching sight of the vehicle barreling toward them at top speed. Shit, that doesn’t look good. For the past few hours they’ve been on the job, they’ve gotten most vehicles to turn back into the city with warning shots, but there were two cars that didn’t stop. They shot them up and sure enough, the men inside were militia or Fedayeen in civilian clothing. But in one case, a woman was traveling with them, probably just someone’s wife. Regardless, she took a bullet in the breast and died for Saddam.

Bass makes it to Bundy, who’s got a shit-eating grin on his face. Fucking great. Bass squints out at the desert and sees a heap of dead goats.

“Look, Monroe. I wasted those fucking goats!” Bundy exclaims jubilantly.

Oh the irony. Well at least it wasn’t dogs.

“Yeah, congratulations, Bundy, you fucking psycho. The hell did you do that for? Are there any people out there?” Bass strains his eyes to detect any human carnage amongst the poor, minced animals. There doesn’t appear to be any-

-a barrage of sudden fire behind Bass suggests the van didn’t stop. There’s a subsequent commotion, and Bass roughly pulls Bundy by the scruff of his neck back toward the roadblock. Something feels wrong.

“Garcia, whats-?” Bass begins to ask as Garcia pushes past him with wide, black eyes.

“Find a corpsman, Monroe! Now!”

“Yes, sir! Bundy, c’mon!”

Garcia runs one way, and they jog off in the other. Garcia must find the only corpsman in the vicinity, because Bass and Bundy come up with nada. By the time Bass makes it back to the roadblock, the excitement is over.

Bass immediately sights Garcia, who is leveling his rifle on a stack of ammo crates and staring melancholically at the horizon. “Sorry, sir. Did you find Doc?”

“Yeah. But they were already dead.”

“Who were dead?”

“Two kids. The kid steering the van couldn’t have been more than thirteen. No wonder he drove so erratic. Didn’t understand the warning shots, you know? He was trying to get his little sister to safety. Her leg was all mangled. They both took bullets to the head.”

“What? Oh Jesus.” Bass feels instantly sick.

“Yeah, man. You shoulda seen it. Our guys were all tryna hit the driver, kept missing because it was zigzagging like fuck. Then your boy, Matheson? Two shots, two kills. Million dollar shots, dawg. Right between the eyes. Fuck me, I’m glad he’s on my side.”

“Miles… fuck! Where is he?”

“Rattled, man. His hands were shaking when they brought over the bodies, and he saw what he’d done. But we didn’t know… the van was driving crazy, and it wasn’t stopping.”

“Fuck! Where _is_ he, man?”

“Don’t know. Lt. Johnson came up to relieve him. Matheson looked white as a ghost,” Garcia mutters, obviously quite distraught himself.

Bass wipes a hand over his mouth, wet with sweat, and gazes briefly at the other Marines’ faces: shock, stoicism, in Tee’s eyes… tears? Fucking hell, things have gone to shit. All Bass knows is he’s got to find Miles.

“Sergeant!” Bass practically yells at Tee in order to get his attention. “May I be relieved, sir, to find PFC Matheson?”

“No, Monroe. Take up position here,” Tee states flatly and looks back at the horizon.

“But, sir!”

In his peripheral vision Bass notices Lt. Johnson and races over to him, frantically repeating his request.

“Permission granted, PFC Monroe. He’s back at your team’s Humvee,” Johnson replies curtly and breezes past him. Everybody’s got something important to do, but they can all go fuck themselves if they’ve left Miles alone back there.

* * *

Miles is lying on his back under the Humvee using an E-tool to chisel away at the hardened tar caked on its undercarriage. Each time his mind flicks back to the children’s faces, red holes drilled through their foreheads, he chips harder. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_. He’s a goddamn baby killer. Just like his father in Vietnam. How do you live with yourself after something like this?

Miles grinds his teeth painfully as he lays into his task. Suddenly, he feels the heat off a body sliding under the Humvee next to him, followed by the faint lemony scent of Bass. Instantly, Miles has to bite his lip against threatening tears, but Bass’ nearness makes it nearly impossible not to cry.

“Hey, man,” Bass says gently.

Miles can feel the intense blue eyes boring into the side of his head. He doesn’t answer, because he can’t, not without positively bawling.

“You were just doing your job. Everybody was shooting at the van. It’s just that you were a better shot. A fucking deadeye shot.”

Miles finally stops chiseling, his hand sinking to his side between their bodies. His lips tremble, and he has to restart twice before he finally gets out, “They were trying to get to help. Just kids, Bass.”

“Miles, you didn’t know!” Bass insists steadily. “You couldn’t have known. We’re all doing the best we can out here.” Bass extends just his pinky over to the side of Miles’ hand and caresses the rough skin with utter tenderness.

At the familiar touch, Miles breaks down. He tries biting his lip again and squeezing his eyes shut, but the tears pour over his eyelids and slide down his cheeks, leaving dirty tracks.

Bass can’t hold him; both of them know that. So he just strokes and strokes that tiny bit of skin with his little finger and whispers, “It’s okay, Miles. It’s not your fault. You were doing your job; it’s not your fault.”

When Miles has regained control of his face, he turns to Bass with shimmering brown eyes rimmed with red. “My bullets, my responsibility.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bass sings Queen, “You’re my Best Friend”  
> E-tool = entrenching tool


	8. Night Patrols and Titty Mags

_March 27-28, 2003_

“The Twins are under the Humvee.”

“Well get ‘em out of there. We’re going on a fucking patrol!”

“Yes, sir!”

Miles and Bass listen silently to Donnell and Terry conversing as the wind around them whistles ominously. A fucking sandstorm, of course. Iraq finds one way after another after another to handball you up the ass.

Grime sails into Miles’ eyes, delicate from crying, and he blinks hard. The side of Bass’ hand is still suctioned onto his with sweat, and if Miles is honest, he’s not keen to leave the comfortable intimacy they’ve created here under the Humvee. Bass is shielding him from his ugly thoughts.

Suddenly Crib’s mocha face wrapped in some kind of local headscarf appears next to Bass and urges, “Come on, dawgs. Our sergeant, in his infinite wisdom, volunteered us for a city patrol just in time for Mother Nature to plumb us in the assholes until we give anal birth to fucking sandcastles.”

Miles and Bass cock their heads at each other at the image. It’s not quite as lyrical as one of Miles’ famous couplets, but it’s not bad either.

“You ready?” Bass asks Miles quietly.

In truth, they’ve lain here together for nearly an hour. Miles has been out here so long he has to take a mondo piss. He nods. He’s not ready, but at least he’s stopped bawling like a little girl.

Bass rolls out first, and both he and Crib offer Miles a hand. Swiftly, Miles’ mood shifts to irritation and defensiveness that they’re treating him like he’s fragile. He waves them off and dusts off his ass. A second swell of ire washes over him when Bass waits nearby as he pisses. A little space, Bass. The thing is with Miles, when he’s agitated or upset his kneejerk reaction is usually hostility. He doesn’t like that about himself; it just is. Bass always bears the brunt of it, because Bass is always around.

So there you have it: Bass’ reward for comforting him for an hour is Miles’ venomous glare. Bass half smiles and takes a step back, gesturing for Miles to go first to the Humvee. Crib even lets Miles drive.

Dust pummels the armor of their trusty steed as Miles steers them back over the canal bridge they worked so hard to secure. The sun slinks beyond the horizon, leaving the air cold and the city far too black to be a civilized place. They’ve been ordered door-to-door in the northeastern sector to ferret out any bad guys that might be hiding among the civilians.

Before exiting the Humvee they don their night optics, though they’re low on batteries and only partially operational, while Donnell uses his purloined Haji headscarf to mask his lower face. In short, they can’t exactly see, they can’t breathe for all the blustery sand, and this task seems stupidly dangerous. What retard ok-ed a five-person night patrol? The worst thing is Tee is panting and pacing about like a rabid dog, seeing villains everywhere.

“Keep your eyes peeled, boys, they could be anywhere!” Tee’s voice quavers.

“Sir, Monroe and I will check the block,” Miles offers to Sgt. Floyd, hoping he’ll just stay by the vehicle and be cool.

Bass would glare at Miles for volunteering them if his eyes weren’t obscured by goggles. Still, he gets _why_ : Tee’s jumpy, Bundy’s a psycho who’s probably on the lookout for more goats, and Crib is manning the radios – they may well need him to call in arty. At least Bass and Miles can count on each other.

They approach their first squalid, little abode, nerves alight. Miles takes a grenade in hand and nods at Bass, who aims his rifle at the door.

Miles knocks, and Bass hollers something that sounds to Miles like, “Fata Ha!” Miles wishes he had been able to memorize the pointie-talkie cards they’d been issued way back on the _USS Kearsarge_ , but he has no talent for Arabic… or any scholastics, really.

Miles holds his breath waiting for the door to open. And then it does. It’s a woman, cradling a wailing baby and yelling at the top of her lungs. Miles can barely make out her face, so he lowers his grenade and rips off his night vision. Fuck, she’s… well she’s otherworldly beautiful, a black headscarf contrasting with milky skin and big, lush eyelashes. Seeing her with her child just reminds him of those kids he wasted earlier today. I mean, hell, if she’d played her cards wrong just now he might have thrown a grenade at her baby.

Bass is trying to communicate with her, while Miles stands there gaping. Somehow Bass is able to push past her, and they search her bare, claustrophobic apartment, while she shadows them, still warbling. No sign of any men. Miles can’t decide if that’s good or bad. All he knows is that over the next three or four houses he’s never been so grateful for his best friend in his life. Not only do they have each other’s backs at each hair-raising entry, but Bass possesses the stunning ability to get these people to calm down enough to grant them access.

Miles is beginning to believe they’re going to make it out of this patrol alive when he notices something at the end of the street: a figure moving toward them with purpose, one hand raised and the other carrying something.

“Holy fuck, man. It’s a kid!” Bass gasps. “He’s juggling a kid and a fucking grenade. What do we do?”

From that moment on, Miles doesn’t blink. “Get behind that cement wall and cover me. I’ll see if I can get a good shot at his head.” Miles ducks into an alley and mounts a pile of crates, climbing for the top of a low, flat roof.

 _Go ahead and throw it, you dumb fuck_ , Bass wills the Haji, who is screaming jibberish at him.

The desperate assailant hears the _crack_ when Miles slips on a crate and wildly flings the grenade at Bass. Bass dives low behind the wall, his heart dropping into his stomach as the explosion rings in his ears. He looks up just in time to see Miles crouching on the roof and taking the shot. The Haji crumples dead on top of the boy, screaming and writhing. Alive.

Running toward the kid, Bass calls behind him, “Sgt. Floyd, over here!”

Instinctively, Bass gathers the stunned child in his arms and holds his quivering body. He’s so skinny, he’s almost sharp. Sand bites at Bass’ cheeks; his heart races. Miles sprints up to Bass so fast, he has to double over with the exertion. Bass flashes his teeth at his best friend. Fucking alive.

* * *

Now that the city is mostly secure, Alpha has finally been given a day off. They’ve pitched an enormous camouflage tent, and if it weren’t for the occasional blast of artillery in the distance, you’d almost think you were back at Camp Shoup for the day… not that anyone would want that.

Miles is reclined on his roll in just his boxer briefs and green t-shirt, staring at nothing, when Bass’ golden-tanned face and white teeth crowds out his view.

“Miles. Couple of the boys are heading into town. Heard tell of some Coca Colas and this Haji chick who’ll go down on you for a few US dollars. Wanna come?” Bass’ blue eyes twinkle deviously.

Miles leans his head back in his hands and asks dryly, “You’re gonna go into Nasiriyah to get your dick sucked?”

Bass shrugs, “Bored. And _I_ might suck someone’s dick for a cold Coke. The kind with real sugar – none of that corn syrup bullshit.”

“Well, have fun. Gonna stay here with my friend _Penthouse_.” Miles rolls over and pulls out the magazine Garcia leant him from under his MOPPs. When he glances back over his shoulder, Bass is gone. Christ, Bass plus boredom is never a good thing. Miles hopes he comes back in one piece.

Miles knows better than to think Bass is actually going to drop drawers for some random Iraqi prostitute, but something about their exchange bothers him anyway. Maybe it’s the fact that Miles has no claim to Bass; that if Bass wanted to, he could very well get his dick sucked by a woman. Bass would probably enjoy it too. He’s fucked a lot of women… a hell of a lot more than Miles has. Miles doesn’t like when Bass is better at things than he is. He sort of enjoys the fact that Bass looks up to him.

Flipping through the magazine, Miles slips his hand into his waistline with a yawn. Jacking off to this rubbish is almost a chore. Miles ignores the voice in his head that tells him if it were a spread of cocks, it’d be different.

By the time Bass returns, Miles is dozing, and Bass wakes him by kicking his bare foot. For once Miles’ feet don’t look too diseased to touch. He must be taking Bass’ advice and airing them out.

Miles cracks an eye to see that Bass has stripped down to his shorts, dogtags jangling over rippling muscles, the familiar black M prominent on his forearm. Bass grins at him but looks a little tired around the eyes.

“You get your dick sucked?” Miles mumbles and sits up, passing a hand over his face.

“Nah,” Bass answers, flopping down next to Miles on his stomach. “The girl was like 14. How fucked up is that? We gave her a Humrat and told her to scram.”

“Guess even you have standards.”

“Yeah. Not very high ones,” Bass’ eyes travel briefly down the length of Miles’ body and then meet the brown eyes.

Despite how he’s playing it off, Bass is honestly feeling a bit tainted by association with the whole incident. He was just bored and running with the boys, having no intention of touching local girls of any age. And yet, Bundy was with him, and Bass knows for a fact that Bundy would have fucked that girl if they’d let him. Bundy is one sick fuck.

Miles yawns and stands up, stretching. “Here, check out page ten,” Miles flings the _Penthouse_ at Bass’ head. “Left ya a little something to remember me by.”

“Aw man, no sperm in the titty mags! Gotta keep ‘em fresh for reuse!” Bass gripes, but Miles has already loped off. Bass obediently opens to page ten and for a moment, he can’t breathe. It’s anal. Miles was jacking off to anal. It feels like a message.

He’s about to shove his hand down the front of his shorts when his intestines offer a juicy, disconcerting rumble. Perhaps what he needs is not a jack but a visit to the slit trenches.

Unfortunately for Bass, he spends the rest of the afternoon squatting next to Marines, who, like him, have fallen victim to the local water. Every time Bass attempts to move away from the latrines he has to bound back in a hurry. The furthest he’s made it away is ten feet. After three hours of this – his asshole burning, his legs quivering, his mouth parched – Bass starts begging to a God he doesn’t believe in for forgiveness.

“I didn’t fuck that fourteen year-old, I swear,” Bass pleads silently and cringes as he wipes his ass with paper fire. Hell, if there is an omniscient God, He would _know_ that, so what the hell is Bass even doing? He’s fucking delirious from dehydration.

The sun is painting the sand pinkish, so it’s already dusk. Aw, hell. Bass hopes he can stop shitting long enough to at least get some shuteye.

He pulls up his pants and limps away from the latrines – 10 feet, 15 – _that’s a boy_. He collapses on his knees in celebration… and because he’s too fucking weak to go on.

All of a sudden, Miles is stooping over him. “Whacchu doing down there, Bass?” Miles’ gravelly voice inquires.

Bass cackles rather manically. Oh shit, he _has_ lost it. He needs water. “I have the shits,” he giggles then doubles over cradling his intestines as they surge. “Owww…”

Miles squats in front of him and hands over his canteen. “Here, drink some water.”

Bass receives the water gratefully, gulping it down. When he wipes his lips and glances into Miles’ dark eyes he sees concern, not the mockery he was expecting.

“Lots of the boys have the shits, Bass. Some of them puking. It’s bad. You look terrible.”

Bass ponders this with some apprehension of his own, trying to formulate a snide retort, but really he just feels like curling up into a little ball and dying. If he were a touch more delirious he’d openly beg Miles for a hug. He can’t remember ever feeling this bad.

Miles puts a hand on his shoulder, and it’s warm and comforting, and now Bass is trying to remember if he did in fact ask for a hug. “C’mon, buddy. Let’s get you some meds from Doc.”

But they don’t even get the chance to move before Crib is in front of them, blocking out the remaining sunlight with his big body, clutching his own midsection and murmuring. “Won’t believe it, dawgs. Tee volunteered us for another patrol t’night. What, is he tryna save the world?”

Miles glares over his shoulder at Crib then beyond him at Tee. “The fu-” Miles interrupts his own insult, like this is too serious to even fuck around with. “But _you’re_ sick, Bass’s sick, Bundy’s sick. Only Tee and I are still on our feet!”

“I know, dawg. C’uze me while I…” Crib leans over and retches. Then he lies face down on the sand and moans.

Somehow the team find themselves back in the city, but this is a farce of a patrol. Tee lingers behind to cover them, while Bass and Miles go door-to-door again; meanwhile, Crib and Bundy all but collapse on each other back at the radios. Every once in a while Bass wavers so much Miles has to practically hold him upright.

They’re just about to knock on a door when Bass turns his blue eyes dolefully upon Miles and then squeezes them shut. “Aw, I shit my pants,” Bass confesses.

Miles shakes his head as Bass sinks to the ground in resignation. He looks back at the rest of his team just in time to see Tee waving at him, while Crib and Bundy disappear into the Humvee. Even from here Miles can see that Bundy has an enormous smear of vomit down the front of his MOPPs.

“I’ll be right back!” Tee yells.

It takes Miles an inordinately long moment to process all this. _What?_ They’re leaving them here? Now granted, it’s not very dangerous in the city anymore. But the sun has set and Bass is… _fuck_. White-hot anger courses through Miles’ veins, and he kicks a rock, sending it sailing.

Bass lolls on the ground and gazes up at Miles. “I can’t believe I shit my pants,” is all Bass murmurs, half-laughing, half-moaning.

“Come on, bud.”

“Nooo… can’t walk.”

“Not gonna walk. I’m gonna carry you.” Miles squats down.

“Shhh… I’m sleeping. Go away,” Bass complains and smiles to himself, drifting off.

“Get on my back, Bass,” Miles says gently, crouching in front of Bass and pulling him forward.

Bass blunders back into coherence, “Dude, I weigh like 250 with all this gear, and I _shit my pants_. Just come back for me.”

“Bass! Get _on_!” Miles demands desperately.

“No, leave me!” Bass snaps, suddenly irritated. God, does he want to sleep.

“Look at me,” Miles insists, and Bass peers at him, trying to bring the big, blurry figure into focus. “We’re in combat. I’m not gonna leave you. Not now, not ever. Now get on my back, and don’t make this harder than it already is.”

Bass sighs and wraps his arms around Miles’ neck. With great effort Miles stands and piggybacks Bass out of Nasiriyah. They don’t make it far before Bass groans and says, “Oh man, put me down, I’m gonna…”

Miles struggles to lower him and flops to the ground just in time for Bass to puke into some low grass. Retching painfully, Bass chokes, his eyes water. When he finally regains control of himself, Miles gathers Bass’ head onto his knee and touches a cool canteen to the parched lips.

“Drink.”

“Miles,” moans Bass. “Dying.”

“You’re not dying, you’re just sick. I’ll get you back to Doc. You’ll be fine,” Miles promises steadily. The truth is, Miles is worried. Bass looks wrecked, they’re all alone out here, and he’s so fucking mad at Tee, he believes he could shoot him.

“How aren’t you sick, Miles? You’re like a steel-stomached ninja superhero…” Bass babbles.

“I had the shits a little too, man,” Miles reassures him.

Just then the headlights of a Humvee blind them. Miles shields Bass’ face and holds up his rifle. It’s Tee and Doc Nolan. Thank fucking God.

The whole ride Miles sits in stony silence. Back at camp, Doc helps Bass to the medical tent for some fluids and antibiotics.

When Tee has the nerve to order Miles to gas up the Humvee before sacking out, Miles shouts, “Yes, sir!” in his sergeant’s face so loud that several nearby Marines swing their heads around to stare. Tee glares but backs off. Miles is huge and intimidating when he wants to be. As soon as Tee is gone Miles stomps over to Lt. Johnson, fuming so hard that he spits when he barks:

“Sir! A word with you, sir!”

Johnson eyes Miles casually for a moment and responds, “PFC Matheson,” cool and even. “I know what you’re going to say, and you’ve obviously got feelings on the subject. There were no healthy teams for that patrol tonight, and your NCO volunteered you, so suck it up.”

“But sir-”

“Miles. You’re dismissed.”

Miles stands in front of Johnson for another moment, huffing, trying to control his breathing. He manages a “Yes, sir,” and strides briskly off.

What Miles doesn’t know is that the lieutenant and his gunny are working on the problem with their dysfunctional sergeant, but it takes time. Chain of command is a delicate thing. You take out a brick, and the whole thing falls apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arty = artillery  
> Fata Ha = فتح or “Open up!”  
> Pointe-talkie card = index cards given to the Marines to teach them certain key phrases in Arabic  
> Humrat = humanitarian ration, given to civilians and abiding by the local dietary conventions


End file.
